poem: Earth Movement

Sometimes we love in action verbs-

novelty of the thing or place, the dawn of experience.

The thrill of encountering fresh curves, landscapes

painted in sepia, young beautiful people

serving exotic appetizers on wooden trays in places

where the angle of the afternoon sun falls differently

than it does at home; dewy eyes evoking the

forbidden unknown, the forever untried,

untasted lingering stolen adrenaline of 1000

ungiven caresses under 10,000 candles lit

to the paths not chosen.

 

Sometimes we love most that which we have made

most familiar, through the trials of time-

a storied pillow, worn spots on the kitchen counter,

a seat under the pine tree where you have

held each other under a thousand glorious

nightfalls and coordinated your breath

as it rose in clouds and mixed around you.

This- the conjuring of half lives in objects

and places made precious through passage of hours

lives, and memories- a richly embroidered

tapestry of all choices made and

consecrated with the power of the known.

 

And how easy to love the sublime-

a volcano spewing the earth’s interior

on the horizon line, the earth undulating in waves

like the Pacific on the day before the storm;

the perfection of the master’s piece

in any gallery; not for naught

have poets long exalted their loves as fine,

unattainable longing. The world’s pedestals

are full of unfulfilled desires, untouched

by hands afraid to fail before

making even the first cut.

 

But what of this love, I ask?

That which for you presents itself

In the simplest act- I pour a glass of water;

life-affirming movement of pure necessity,

touched by hedonistic desire.

A small something I could do

anywhere, under any circumstance-

in far-off lands, in my own garden,

under the watchful eye of a tempest.

And because everywhere and everything

reminds me of something else

I forgot to tell you, yesterday.

for F

Author's Note

translated in Spanish here:

http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/hauntedfox/1510525/

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

The truest of loves is, as you have so beautifully stated, a combination of the high-flown and everyday, of volcanoes and glasses of water for the thirsty, and you have contrasted and counterbalanced the two notions just so. Elegant work.

[Marie Anzalone]

A balancing act I woud far rather read about than live through... but that has always been my curse/ course, of course. I am glad you can see the restraint an dpassion that I put into these pieces. I think that takes a nuanced eye, and it is appreciated.

[Emily B]

so very breathtaking . . . oh my heart!

[Marie Anzalone]

Some hidden things are surfacing, a wave I am sure can drown me. Maybe, precisely what was asked for?